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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25600102">Braveheart</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimwoode/pseuds/grimwoode'>grimwoode</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Of Privateers and Pirates [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Depression, Gen, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:28:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,364</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25600102</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimwoode/pseuds/grimwoode</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Life has never been easy for Alistair, even when he lived with his dysfunctional family back in London, but his life certainly became filled with far worse hardships after he turned his back on his country and joined Armado’s pirate crew. Of course, the last thing he expected was to be hunted down by his own brother.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>England/France (Hetalia)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Of Privateers and Pirates [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/493054</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. For King and Country</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Two years too late, but regardless. This is the final part of the Privateers and Pirates series, and it is still a WIP, although the chapters are complete. </p>
<p>Happy reading :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Alistair’s lungs filled with smoke as he ran across the deck. His head was still reeling, numbed from the sight of Armado’s chest pooling with his own blood. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Red blurs faded in and out of Alistair’s line of sight. His brothers-in-arms’ screams rang in his ears and one by one, they fell with gaping cavities in their chests that Alistair could see clean through. Blood soaked the floorboards of the Madreperla. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Alistair fumbled to the nearest body, hands trembling and his heart pounding madly with adrenaline and fear. Blood stained his knees as he knelt beside the body, desperately clasping his hand over the wound to stifle the bleeding in his friend’s gut, praying and muttering for the younger man to live.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He tried to stop the bleeding. His mind blocked out the blur of chaos around him, everything blending into fire, smoke, and blood as he focused solely on the man under him. When he felt he had finally managed to stop the bleeding, he looked up at the man and his mouth fell open with despair.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He watched as Lovino’s baby face, normally fixed with a stubborn scowl, paled and slackened, his eyes turning glassy and his lips blue as the sea. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Fear gripped Alistair, his breathing stopped at the thought that Antonio surely was going to kill him this time for letting Lovino die.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Alistair awoke with a startled gasp, cold with sweat. The image of Lovino’s pale face was burned into his memory now, filling him with shame. It was his fault they were dead. He was the reason why they all died. He knew it now. This was his sign from God.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After all these years of being a free man, unbound by society and family, it all came so abruptly to an end. Alistair never thought his family would care enough to actually hunt him down, and even if they did, he thought he’d sooner die at sea than be made to suffer like this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For King and Country.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He never imagined that he’d be forced to watch in horror while the ship he sailed with his band of blood brothers burned and fell apart, sinking into the black depths while they screamed in pain, in battle, then drowned to their deaths.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His stomach curled, sickened by the memory of the gross display Arthur put him through. This was beyond unjust; it was cruel and Alistair was never going to forgive his little brother for this. He decided in that moment, while bathing in the light cast by the fires of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Madreperla</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s wreckage: Arthur was going to suffer for this. He was going to make him pay for the pain he had brought down on them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You will pay for your crimes as well,” declared Arthur. He was standing not far off from Alistair, hands clasped behind his back as he watched the wreckage as well. Alistair would have laughed at the imperial airs his brother put on if he wasn’t already so full of hatred. It seemed as though he considered this something worth boasting about.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You shoulda let me die on that ship,” growled Alistair through gritted teeth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Arthur said sternly. “You have other crimes you need to pay for first.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the hell are you on about?!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course I’m referring to your betrayal to our family,” sneered Arthur. He looked down at Alistair with distaste before waving to a subordinate to take him away. Content that he would be dealt with, Arthur walked away, ignoring Alistair’s bellows and curses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A couple of British soldiers came and picked Alistair up to drag him below deck. “Drag” was a rather generous word. They simply tossed him down below, letting him fall with a hard thump that knocked the air out of his lungs and left him gasping. They followed down the ladder as he struggled to recover before picking him back up and shoving him into an iron cell at the back of the gallery.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sitting in the darkness, Alistair continued to recover from the fall, clutching his slowly bruising side and leaning against the iron bars. Overwhelmed with grief and anger, he began to hiccup and sob for his lost brethren.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Night had fallen by the time Alistair’s sobs quieted. It was pitch black in the ship’s belly, and no one had deemed fit to leave a lantern lit for their disgraced prisoner. Biting back his bitter tears, Alistair’s eyes didn’t stay open long enough for him to ever get accustomed to the dark. He laid himself against the hard floorboards and attempted to sleep, but his hiccups made it difficult for him to sleep at all. His head was pounding and his eyes felt heavy and fuzzy--he desperately prayed for sleep, and yet it never came.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he lay there against the cold damp, he could hear the sounds of celebrations on the deck above and it made him sick to his stomach. The British were revelling in the murder of several dozen brave men while he laid alone in the dark; hungry, tired, and broken. Alistair couldn’t recall falling asleep, but when morning came, he was rudely prodded awake. Startled, he sat up suddenly to find a wooden stick poking through the bars of his cage and Arthur’s smug face looking down at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alistair tried to snatch the stick from his brother, but he was slow and Arthur managed to snatch it away before he could. Unable to look him in the eye without seeing red, Alistair turned away from him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now’s not a time to be proud,” hummed Arthur. “My men don’t take kindly to traitors, so you’re not likely to get your meals from anyone but me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alistair grumbled but didn’t respond, still refusing to look at Arthur. He could hear his younger brother let out an annoyed groan before his heavy boots stomped off and away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Satisfied that he was finally gone, Alistair rolled onto his back. He had to blink and squint as his eyes adjusted to the lamp light they “mercifully” left behind this time. He looked around the ship’s belly where he was imprisoned, trying to peer into the darkness beyond the lamplight for things he might use as a weapon if he tried to escape. Only then did his eyes catch a glimpse of blue not far off, and tilting his head aside, he squinted into the darkness and recognized the tall blond that was with the Brits the night of the murder. He scowled at the blond, in that moment, directing all his hurt and anger onto this stranger.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The blond walked out of the shadows, clicking his tongue in disapproval and distaste. “You don’t know the lengths he went through for you,” he scolded. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alistair sneered, recognizing the American French accent. “I never wanted him to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Clearly,” grumbled the man, shoving his delicate hands into his trouser pockets as he walked away towards the ladder leading back up to sunlight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a sigh, Alistair laid back down to rest, his eyes reluctantly thankful that they at least left the lamp on this time. However, he stubbornly ignored the food that was laid out for him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hatred brewed dangerously in his heart; an emotion he hoped never to feel again.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Resentment</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After having his little taunt at Alistair, Arthur went up to his cabin on the main deck. He climbed out of the darkness of the gallery and entered the sunkissed deck where the day was finally reaching its end. He let out a sigh gazing out at sea where the waters were tinged orange and purple, and the breeze carried the lingering smell of burning wood coated in crisping paint and charred flesh blackened like coal. His soldiers kept busy all around him, staying out of his way. Arthur pouted when he realized he was the only one still rejoicing over their recent victory. His hands on his hips, he kept his gaze set forward, their course set for home.</p>
<p>He sensed more than heard Francis following him at a respectable distance. Arthur turned his head just slightly to glimpse at him. “What?” he frowned.</p>
<p>“You seem tired,” shrugged Francis. “Why don’t we have a drink in your cabin and you can rest? It’s been a long few days.”</p>
<p>Another sigh, this time from exasperation. Francis was hinting that he wanted to talk alone; Arthur was sure of it.</p>
<p>“Sure. Let’s crack open a fresh bottle of rum,” he said, stepping away from the middle of the deck to head to his personal chambers, knowing Francis wouldn’t be far behind him.</p>
<p>Francis watched him carefully from behind, not bothering to hide the worry he felt for Arthur. After all these years of hunting his estranged brother, he finally achieved the one goal that motivated his actions for over a decade. What will happen to him now? Will he find a new purpose to push him to be the best that he can be, or will he wither away, aimless and unmotivated? Francis feared the latter. He refused to believe that Arthur hated his brother as recklessly as he claimed. He refused to believe that a human being could be so driven by hatred as to rise the ranks as Arthur had done at such a young age, to have sailed around the world and become both a hardened sailor and soldier, all for this stupid, bloated hatred of a lost brother.</p>
<p>Francis’s resentment is only heightened by Alistair’s obvious disdain towards Arthur. He had truly committed an unforgivable act in his brother’s eyes when he slaughtered his adopted brethren. It only made Francis feel all the more strongly that Arthur should have let him be. He should have let go of his hatred. All those bitter sentiments that raged in Francis all those years ago when he first learned of Arthur’s mission were reigniting a fire in his heart filled with pain and longing.</p>
<p>But it was too late now. Those many lives lost could not be brought back, and Arthur will have to live with the consequences until he returns to England.</p>
<p>It was only as a wave hit the side of their boat, causing it to creak to one side and Arthur to sway with it, almost losing his balance that Francis saw something was not right. After years of sailing, even at his most drunk, Arthur was hard to lose balance. His sway was subtle, but having seen him at work for so long, Francis knew something was wrong and he intended to get to the bottom of it. After all, when Arthur failed to take care of himself, it fell on Francis to pick up the pieces.</p>
<p>“You seem more tired than I initially thought. Perhaps we should just lie down,” suggested Francis.</p>
<p>“Nonsense. I know there’s something you wanted off your hairy chest, so we’re going to talk,” replied Arthur. Once he regained his balance, walked behind his desk, his gait disjointed as though one foot were suddenly heavier than the other. <br/><br/>“Is that a limp?” frowned Francis. His mind began racing to recall the battle. He was sure he was by his side the entire time, specifically so that Arthur would not injure himself in his recklessness.</p>
<p>“It’s fine,” sighed Arthur, sitting in his chair rather heavily to pull a bottle of rum from the drawer, as well as two glasses that he filled generously.</p>
<p>Francis scoffed. “How are you hurt? Where?”</p>
<p>Arthur gave Francis a disapproving look and handed him his glass. He didn’t deign to answer and instead sat back in his chair, propping a leg up over the other knee--presumably the injured one--before taking a sip of his own glass.</p>
<p>“Arthur,” seethed Francis, walking up to the desk and leaning over it. “How are you hurt?”</p>
<p>“Why do you bloody care?” snapped Arthur. </p>
<p>“Don’t play that game with me,” he growled. “You know why I care. You <em>know </em>why I joined you on that battlefield, and it certainly wasn’t to have some of my men killed and a single pirate taken into custody.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t need a babysitter,” grumbled Arthur, taking a long sip of his drink.</p>
<p>Francis scoffed again. “You don’t think straight when it comes to him,” he reasoned further, his voice rising another pitch. “You would’ve thrown yourself at him blindly had I not been there!”</p>
<p>“And yet I didn’t,” he replied, a sharp edge to his tone he hoped would be warning enough to Francis not to linger further.</p>
<p>Francis only straightened and frowned. He leaned forward, taking the second glass to down its contents in three full gulps and setting it back down with a purposeful stomp.</p>
<p>“Do you feel that your men died for nothing?” Arthur asked once the silence began to linger too long to his taste.</p>
<p>“That is precisely what I <em>don’t</em> want to happen,” snapped Francis. “We both lost too many sailors in that fight. It may have been a victory for His Royal Majesty’s navy, but it came at great cost. If the only reward to come out of this is a hanged traitor, paid by the price of several dead soldiers, several more privateers under my service, and your broken foot, I’ll be sorely disappointed.”</p>
<p>“And what are you expecting beyond <em>just</em> a hanged traitor,” replied Arthur with a slow drawl to his voice that grated Francis’s ears.</p>
<p>Francis took a deep breath. “You know as well as anyone how much I miss my brother,” he said, trying to keep his voice low and level, not to let his emotions leak into what he was trying to say. He looked away when a frown slid across Arthur’s features at the reminder. “The least I hope will be accomplished is some sort of closure between you and your own brother. It’s closure I’ve never had the privilege of receiving, and I sorely wish I had. I can’t help fearing that you will regret not coming to terms with your brother before he inevitably meets his end as well.”</p>
<p>As Francis spoke, Arthur took the liberty of refilling both their glasses. “If he will meet me half-way. I’m… not against the thought of bringing my brother back to the right path. I will do what it takes to make that happen before the end of his trial.”</p>
<p>Francis sighed and gulped his second glass of liquor. This was as good as it was going to get for now, he supposed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Mourning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alistair remained wrapped in the darkness of the British vessel’s belly. As the days dragged on, his black surroundings brought him solace, reminding him that he was alone and that there was no one left to suffer for his actions.</p><p>Days and nights were indistinguishable from one another. Alistair couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had seen any natural lighting, but it was better than witnessing the orange blaze of the <em>Madreperla</em> all over again. He could never see a sunset with the same innocent eyes again, and he would sooner kill himself than watch another ship burn.</p><p>His failure to serve Armado and his brothers made him sick to his stomach, and his failure to protect them or die with them made him wish he had never existed at all, convinced that if it weren’t for him, they would still be alive and well, pillaging the Seven Seas. After all, he knew deep in his heart that the only reason the Imperial British Navy ever sought out their crew was because of Arthur’s hatred for him. He knew that this was his end as well, and that his little brother was only keeping him alive to prolong his misery. Alistair’s despair sank so deep, it drowned him in a viscous, toxic matter he thought would surely kill him long before Arthur ever could. Whenever the feeling began to overwhelm him again, he would focus his depleting energy on the creaking of the ship, how boxes in the dark shifted in her sway. In more creative moments, he imagined the ship’s movements propelling the dancing hips of an attractive young Spanish woman he had met years ago in a bar in the New World.</p><p>But that only reminded him of how Antonio noticed him eyeing the young woman and approached her on his behalf, introducing the two. She was the first woman Alistair ever laid with, thanks to Antonio. His heart squeezed tightly in his chest, causing a slight whimper to escape him at the memory and he instantly pushed it down again to wallow in the ship’s darkness, the surrounding cold dampness, and the muted waves beneath his numbing arse.</p><p>Every day, someone brought him a bowl of gruel, blinding him with their lamp light. He would turn to face away from them, his legs and ass tingling as they were awoken out of their numbed stupor. He would shield his face in his blood-stained jacket, feeling all the more like a caged, sickened animal until the soldier would leave again. He would set the food down near his cage and would turn tail to head back up to their quarters, leaving Alistair alone in the dark again. They never served him his daily meal during a time of day where he felt hungry, so he rarely ate any at all. He only ever felt tired and weary. He only ever wanted to sleep and forget, dancing in a fantasy world that could never belong to him.</p><p>The few times he did eat was when Arthur was the one bringing him food. His brother rarely spoke, but he brought him stale bread and cool meat. He would set the food down, hang his lantern, and then sit in a nearby chair, watching him, waiting for him to eat. Under his hard, scrutinizing gaze, Alistair no longer felt an urge to be defiant towards nature. He would uncurl himself out of his corner, his eyes shielded from the light by the jacket he kept perpetually over his head. He would reach through the bars of his cage for his mockery of a sandwich, and would begin to eat. His mouth was so dry that the bread and meat felt like sandpaper against his tongue and palate, forcing him to chew slowly and deliberately out of fear that he would choke on the unappetizing morsels.</p><p>Arthur watched him while he ate. Today, he had even brought him a water skin to wet his lips and tongue, which Alistair could only feel grateful for, too broken inside to care about spiting Arthur anymore. He was beaten, and he knew it. There was nothing left to fight for.</p><p>The water was tepid, and drinking it made his belly feel so full, he thought it might burst, but in that moment, it was a small piece of paradise.</p><p>“Is there a reason why you’re not eating what my men feed you?” Arthur asked him quietly, breaking the silence between them for the first time.</p><p><em>I’d sooner bite their hands off than eat that bland, cold shite they spit at me</em>, thought Alistair. He had no energy to convey his usual disgust towards the soldiers and simply lifted his shoulders in a mock shrug, swallowing down the piece of dry bread he’d been chewing in an attempt to soften it.</p><p>“You’re looking rather gaunt,” mumbled Arthur. Alistair looked up at him and saw that his bushy eyebrows and his thin lips curved down in a disapproving frown. Or at least, it <em>looked</em> disapproving--Alistair knew Arthur well enough to see that this was his worried face.</p><p>However, he couldn’t fathom what Arthur could possibly have to worry about, being their father’s favourite little soldier boy. He rolled his eyes and began picking at the fatty strips of salted meat. Arthur sighed at his brother’s lack of response. He waited until Alistair was no longer picking at the scraps before bending down to pick up the dishes and make his way back up to the galley.</p><p>After that, Arthur decided to take care of all of his brother’s needs himself. Everyday, he went down below deck with rations and water for him. “I’m not leaving until you eat at least half,” threatened Arthur, everyday without fault. Preferring solitude to his brother’s company, Alistair made sure to eat the unappetizing morsels quicker so his brother would leave him alone to his misery again. One time, he even brought him a pint of beer. “It was going to sour and I hate wasting good food,” grumbled Arthur, seemingly unbothered by the fact that Alistair never responded to him or his musings.</p><p>Eventually, Alistair’s wandering thoughts began to circle around Arthur and whatever nasty ploy he might be trying to achieve. He cursed his brother for not letting him starve to death.</p><hr/><p>Although Arthur did briefly rejoice in his victory over Alistair, his happiness over it corroded at the miserable sight of his elder brother. As much as he relished finally reaching the end of his lifetime goal, his brother sucked all the joy out of it, looking forlorn and defeated like a frightened, kicked pup. Where he had expected to find Alistair’s signature fiery passion that made him both a sight to be feared and admired growing up, instead he was met with a mousy, shrinking man every day that refused to eat and had no will to live.</p><p>This was not the boy Arthur had grown up to admire, and later abhor. This was a man that had accepted and embraced death before Arthur had even had the chance to threaten him with it.</p><p>Although Alistair’s betrayal had filled him with hate, the man he sat before everyday over scraps of meat and biscuits filled him with pity and made him ache for better days where he had an ally before their father’s tyranny instead of an enemy at sea. The more Alistair shrunk within himself, wasting away at his own stubborn lack of appetite, the more Arthur wished it was his living, breathing brother sitting in that prison cell instead of the hollow man now sitting in his flesh.</p><p>When he noticed Alistair started throwing up his meager dinners, Arthur began to sneak some medicine into a pint of beer once a week to mask the bitter taste. When he brought the rations and beer down to where Alistair was locked up, he was delighted to see his brother’s eyes light up at the sight of the amber liquid despite the harshness of the new light.</p><p>“It was going to sour and I hate wasting good food,” grumbled Arthur, placing the food and pint near the bars of his cage where he could reach before sitting in his usual chair. He bit back his glee with difficulty when he saw Alistair reaching for the beer first and taking a hearty gulp.</p><p>“It’s nice to see that I’m not the only one that has taken after father’s drunkenness,” hummed Arthur, leaning against one of the arm rests with his palm propped under his chin. “He was such a mean drunk, you would think we would know better.”</p><p>Alistair made a barely audible grunt in reply. Arthur didn’t pay attention to it.</p><p>“You should know that I understand why you did it,” he murmured under his breath, hardly loud enough for his brother to hear. “Just like Braith and Erin. Did you know she married an American and moved to the New World? She lives in Louisiana, now. Father was furious about it and disowned her, just as he disowned you--”</p><p>That had prompted another grunt from Alistair. “Oh… I suppose it was silly of me to assume that you would have known that,” Arthur said with an awkward pass of his hand through his hair. “Yes… Father disowned you after he learned that you had run away with that Venezuelan pirate. He disowned Erin when she ran away to America. He had not, however, disowned Braith when he went to Africa on an expedition of some sort--I suppose our baby brother had learned from yours and Erin’s experiences--although he hasn’t returned since. Sometimes he sends us letters with some primitive artifacts from whatever country he’s settled in at the moment, although I suspect he’s sending cursed objects on purpose. I believe he’s in the south part now, but I’m not quite sure--I’ve been at sea quite a long time myself--”</p><p>Alistair cleared his throat. “And Ina?” he asked mutely.</p><p>“After Erin ran away, father married her off to some distant relative of the Lancasters. He’s a fat and ugly man, but at least he’s wealthy, and his health has deteriorated enough that he wouldn’t be able to hit her,” snickered Arthur, hoping to lighten the mood, but his brother only frowned at the news.</p><p>“So what you’re saying is that I ran away to become a pirate, Erin ran away and married a foreigner, unconsciously forcing her sister into an unloving marriage, while you became a miniature of our demonic father, and Braith ran away to exotic lands.”</p><p>Arthur gave him a harsh glare when he compared him to their father. “I am <em>nothing</em> like that man,” he spat. “The only reason I joined the navy was so I could find <em>you</em> and bring you back home.”</p><p>Alistair threw his arms to either side in a ‘come at me’ gesture and with a mouthful of dried meat, said, “You caught me. And I’m sure you’ve done a marvellous job sucking his cock to catch me and lead me to my death, putting an end to the shame in our noble Kirkland name.”</p><p>Arthur’s face turned an unflattering shade of red at the accusation. “This had nothing to do with him!”</p><p>“Then why, dear brother, did you become a captain for His Majesty’s Fleet? Why did you target me and my family? Why am I the only one still alive?”</p><p>“<em>They are not your family</em>!” he snapped, his voice cracking when he realized his outburst. His embarrassment only grew as the silence between them began to fill with the sound of the water rushing around them, wood creaking under the pressure of the sea.</p><p>Alistair set the biscuit he had been eating down. “They were more of a family to me than the Kirklands could ever be,” he said, forcing a calming tone into his voice. “Mother and Father were terrible people, and we were too busy competing with each other to ever call each other brothers.”</p><p>Arthur felt his cheeks burning. “So you weren’t just running away from him. You were running away from me too.”</p><p>“Not at first,” shrugged Alistair. “But when I found out you became a captain, too, it was inevitable. I felt it in my heart that you were only trying to spite me, just as you have always done.”</p><p>“That’s not true,” protested Arthur. “I looked up to you, Alistair. You thought I was trying to compete with you, but I was only trying to survive. I was only trying to be as strong as I thought you were.” He stood up, then. “The day you ran away was the day I realized that I was wrong to believe you were a person worth looking up to. You ran away to save yourself--you abandoned us. But I <em>survived</em>, and I tried protecting my siblings.”</p><p>“Sounds like you’ve done a marvellous job protecting them, seeing how they also ran away, and one is a prisoner in her own home,” grumbled Alistair.</p><p>“I have a personal guard in Ina’s service to keep an eye on her and protect her from her husband,” seethed Arthur. “I’m not an idiot. I know he’s cut from the same cloth as our father, and I will do anything I can to make sure she doesn’t live through what our mother did. Sadly, there is nothing I can do to protect Erin or Braith. But <em>you</em> were the one that brought shame to our family. <em>You</em> were the one that chose a life of piracy, murder, and grand theft. <em>You</em> will pay for your horrible mistake one way or another.”</p><p>Alistair glared up at Arthur through the bars of his cage. Too weary to continue bickering like this, he turned to face away from Arthur, putting an end to their conversation for good.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Regrets</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Why was he acting like a brother now, <em>only now</em>, after all these years competing against each other followed by all these years apart? They had become strangers to each other. He couldn’t understand why Arthur would suddenly care about his well-being.</p>
<p>He certainly hadn't given a second thought to his brother since he joined Armado. Nothing about Arthur's confession would change that. And yet, something vile began crawling around the pit of Alistair's stomach that he recognized to be guilt, something he thought he had long brushed off his conscience in order to continue doing his job onboard the <em>Madreperla</em>. There was no room for guilt when lives were at stake.</p>
<p>But now those lives were lost. The reality of it sunk in even more, feeding the vileness in Alistair's gut. In his mind, he blamed his brother, but in his heart, he blamed himself.</p>
<p>And now, he knew, he would die for it.</p>
<p>It was a few days before Arthur came back to visit him. In his absence, anonymous soldiers brought him food. With how long it was since he last saw daylight, Alistair became disoriented when one day, men unlocked his cage and dragged him to his feet, dragging him up to the blinding light on deck, down the plank where--for the briefest moment--Alistair thought he would be tossed at sea to die in the cold depths as his brothers had done. It would be a far more merciful death than what the King would condemn him to, he was certain. Blinded as he was, he was disappointed to feel solid, unswaying ground beneath his feet, like gravel pressing against his soles and jolting him out of his melancholy.</p>
<p>"Where are we?" he snapped hoarsely, looking around for a glimpse of his little brother's blond, perpetually well-groomed hair, but all he could see in the blinding light were patches of colour and movement.</p>
<p>Alistair's question was ignored, and that, combined with his severe malnutrition and delirium, subdued him into compliance. He kept his eyes stubbornly sealed shut so the blinding daylight would stop piercing into his skull, and he only opened them again when he felt the humidity of outside air shift to the cool dampness of stone walls, the sun's rays no longer beating down on his pale, mothy skin. He tentatively opened his eyes into squinty little lines to try to have some idea of where they might be, but his eyesight still remained stubbornly fuzzy, making him fear that the vague blindness may become permanent.</p>
<p>He was dragged roughly through the halls. In contrast to the dark depths of the ship, the cacophony of the building was deafening and Alistair couldn't pinpoint any one voice or conversation. It was all too overwhelming. Taking deep breaths, Alistair only focused on the hands that gripped his bound arms on either side of him, the pressure they were exerting to keep him in place, to force him and bend him to their will. He gave them some resistance in the hopes that they would hurt him more, to distract him with pain, giving him something to anchor him back into his darkness, away from the real world.</p>
<p>Detached as he was, Alistair didn't know how long it was before he was let go, the pain, the pressure dissipating from his arms as he slumped to the floor and he heard the clang of metal closing around him. His eyes remained sealed to the light, his body curling inwards when he realized the space around him was significantly smaller than what he had onboard Arthur’s ship. He couldn't even stretch his legs in front of him, stuck in a sitting foetal position until he would eventually be released again.</p>
<p>Left alone, the outside world began overwhelming him again, causing his body to tremble as he clamped his hands over his ears in an attempt to block everything out. His only distraction left was the numbing pain he felt as he pulled at his matted hair in fistfuls, the sting of his hair coming away from his scalp becoming his only relief from inner torment.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Arthur watched from afar while his brother was taken away, rambling and shielding his eyes from the sun. He looked every bit like madness incarnate, hellbent on spreading his insanity to anyone that dared touch him.</p>
<p>He couldn't stomach the sight of his elder brother, once so proud, reduced to this. Arthur let his men drag him off while he went to the captains' quarters with Francis in tow. The moment the door was closed behind them, Arthur let his composure slip away, his knees beginning to buckle and his hands trembling, reaching for the back of a chair to hold himself up with. Francis rushed to his side, lifting Arthur to steady him on his feet and Arthur let out a groan, not wanting to be touched right now. He got annoyed when Francis stubbornly ignored him and helped him into the chair.</p>
<p>"What do I do now?" asked Arthur, a note of helplessness to his voice.</p>
<p>Francis responded with a click of his tongue, letting out a sigh as he sat in the chair beside Arthur, holding his hand tightly in his.</p>
<p>"Francis," said Arthur, a note of desperation to his voice. "I know we talked about saving him, but we never talked about <em>how. </em>The government has him now. What do I do? What <em>can</em> I do?"</p>
<p>Hearing the pleading tone from Arthur awoke something in Francis. Of course they had talked about it but never in detail, and Francis always suspected that he only said that to make him follow along and didn't actually intend to save him. Now a coil wrapped taut around his heart seeing Arthur looking so... lost.</p>
<p>"Shall we save him the easy way or the hard way?" he hummed, gently rubbing Arthur's calloused knuckles with his thumb.</p>
<p>Arthur looked up at Francis, his brows furrowed. "What easy way? I only see the hard way."</p>
<p>"By helping him escape, of course," hummed Francis, keeping his demeanor calm so that Arthur could maintain an equally calm composure.</p>
<p>Arthur only blinked at that, his mind trying to comprehend what Francis was suggesting. "That would make him even <em>more</em> of a criminal," he snapped.</p>
<p>"He is already destined for death. But if he escapes and shapes a new identity, he may yet get a new chance to live. It wouldn't be the cushioned life of a nobleman, but Alistair already knows the hardships of the sea--anything less will be a simple challenge to overcome," reasoned Francis.</p>
<p>"I don't know if he is yet," said Arthur, a tint of hopelessness in his voice. "If that's the easy way, then what's the hard way? A trial in front of a judge?"</p>
<p>"Mm-hmm."</p>
<p>Arthur sighed. "I'll at least try speaking with the judge. Maybe he can be persuaded one way or another," he mumbled. "And if not... We'll try your way."</p>
<p>Francis smiled at Arthur. His heart swelled with pride for him and the steps he was making to better his brother's future. "I'm really happy that you're doing this, Arthur," he said in praise. "You're making the right choice--I promise."</p>
<p>Arthur returned the soft smile, giving their clasped hands a squeeze.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Richard Munt was the sort of man that enjoyed his easy job, easy life, and easy wife. He signed his court orders--often without reading the documents attached—left his cushy office while the sun was still high, went to the pub for a nice draught of beer (or two, or three), and then went home in time for dinner where he would plough his lovely, pale-arsed wife (sometimes on the dining room table if he was feeling particularly feisty). And then he would finally unwind in his study with a nice, undiluted Spanish port until his wife was asleep. Then he could retire to his own bedchambers to finally be alone with his thoughts (or a maid... Again, depending on his fancy of the day).</p>
<p>Today was one such a day where he felt particularly feisty. Richard Munt wanted to get home as soon as humanly possible so he could rub his face in his wife's fat tits. So imagine his annoyance when a few soldiers come into his office, both looking sunburnt from too much time outdoors and both looking nervous, trembling in their oversized boots and casting weary glances around the dark room, wallpapered in green damask with brass candelabras about to somewhat ease the dimness. No matter what, they didn’t dare look directly at the portly man sitting behind the massive cherry-stained wood desk that acted as the centrepiece to the austere room.</p>
<p>"What?!" belched out Munt, rising out of his seat like a storm, causing stray papers to fly out of line. He felt greatly satisfied seeing the two men exchange terrified glances to each other at his outburst.</p>
<p>"S-sir, we heard you were the one that prosecutes felonies. Correct?" one of them asked, his voice sounding an octave higher than it ought to.</p>
<p>Munt narrowed his eyes at the two men. "What of it?" he asked, feeling a growing unease at such a question. "If you two are buggers, you would find more mercy from a priest than you would ever get from me."</p>
<p>The two young men paled under their sunburnt skin. "No, sir! It's not that sort of felony," the other exclaimed. "You see, we've only just docked in Bristol after a sea voyage where our captain was tasked with hunting pirates. We were meant to capture as many alive as we could to bring them back for prosecution, proper as the law demands."</p>
<p>Munt let out an impatient groan. He was envisioning a mountain of paperwork on his desk by morning now, perhaps even by that evening, depending on how industrious their captain is. The more eager to please, the more annoying the work.</p>
<p>"We believe our captain went a tad overboard when apprehending the pirates," jumped in one soldier. "We only captured one pirate--an Englishman--and the rest were left on their ship to burn and drown to death. That's no proper way to implement the law, sir, we don't believe."</p>
<p>"And what's stranger yet," piped up the other, "is that our captain <em>took care of the pirate</em>. Coulda sworn they were old friends gone rogue."</p>
<p>"We suspect they may have been colluding down there. You see, sir, we're concerned that our captain may be a turncoat, especially with that French catholic privateer he's always having private meetings with in his chambers--"</p>
<p>At that, Munt interrupted them. "Your captain has a French sailor in his employ?" he asked, his interest growing by the minute.</p>
<p>Both soldiers nodded, their heads bobbing up so violently that Munt laughed at the idea that they may just pop off like an apple in the wind. <em>Pop. </em>He laughed.</p>
<p>The two men gazed at him, now feeling hopeful for the first time since deciding to report their captain's strange behaviour.</p>
<p>"And why are you fine young boys telling me instead of your admiral?" inquired Munt.</p>
<p>Their hope crumbled. "Because you'll be prosecuting the criminal," one answered. "Can't you prosecute them together?"</p>
<p>Munt sighed at their blatant ignorance. "And what proof have you?"</p>
<p>The two soldiers glanced at each other before shrugging. "Just us on the ship that saw the two together," one said. </p>
<p>"For instance, he sometimes brought the prisoner <em>beer</em>. Beer! We had to share our rations with that criminal!"</p>
<p>"And often, we saw the Frenchman go down there with our captain. We believe there should be a proper investigation."</p>
<p>Munt considered the two boys carefully, his eyes narrowing at them again. "Who's your captain and who is this felon?"</p>
<p>"Captain Kirkland, sir! Arthur Kirkland, that is--Admiral Kirkland's firstborn son."</p>
<p>"The prisoner is called 'Ally', we believe. Molly name for a pirate, if I do say so myself."</p>
<p>Munt's mouth flopped agape as the pieces of the puzzle fell together. Arthur Kirkland was one of those "industrious" captains that did their work far too efficiently, giving him a constant pain in his neck and consistently making it difficult for him to get home before sundown. Whether he continues this consistency will be a first clue into the credibility of these soldiers' claims. "I see. You couldn't have brought this to the admiral's attention. The two of you wouldn't leave with your heads still attached." He laughed, recalling how their heads bobbed like apples.</p>
<p>The two soldiers became uncomfortable at such a laugh, their shoulders growing stiff. One of them gulped.</p>
<p>"I will consider investigating the matter. And don't you worry, your names shall not be mentioned in the report. Have a good day, lads," said Munt, dismissing the two young soldiers. They bowed low before turning tail to exit his office.</p>
<p>Munt chewed his cheek as he processed all of this newfound information. He had heard rumours down the pipe that there was some dark secret in the Kirkland family and this sort of gossip was the only thing that gave him any joy other than booze and sex.</p>
<p>He sat back into his chair, sinking into it and resting his hands on his bulbous belly. He let out a sigh. Now he had to wait for Kirkland to show, if he did.</p>
<p>So much for an early end to the day.</p>
<hr/>
<p>After spending the last several days asking around, Arthur finally found the man he was looking for. He had Francis track down the man before Arthur could ambush him at his downtown office, just near the courthouse and overlooking the gallows. Although a morbid place to live, Arthur could see that it was more out of convenience than anything else. He was a stone's throw from the very place his clients would meet their ends if he failed to defend them. Surely, that meant he had all the motivation he would need to defend Alistair's case and perhaps Arthur can afford to line his pockets with a little less gold.</p>
<p>Regardless, by noontime, Arthur was at Terence Blake's townhome with a hefty file tucked under his arm. He dressed himself in commoner's slacks and a shirt borrowed from Francis, and wore a cap over his head to complete the disguise. The last thing he needed was growing suspicions spurred on by his current whereabouts.</p>
<p>Seeing a commanding officer of the English Navy paying a visit to the most renowned defence lawyer to inhabit the British Isles would do his reputation no favours, especially as a Kirkland.</p>
<p>But Arthur was ready to lay his hopes on this man. He pulled his cap down tighter over his head and knocked three times on his front door. He fidgeted, leaning his weight on the balls of his feet as he waited for someone to open the door for him. Growing restless, he was leaning in to knock again when the door suddenly swung open.</p>
<p>A mousy young woman with pockmarked cheeks peeked through the narrow opening. "Yes?" she greeted, almost too quietly for Arthur to hear.</p>
<p>Arthur cleared his throat. "I'm here to meet with Mr. Blake," he said.</p>
<p>The girl nodded, opening the door wider to let him in. Holding his bundle of papers close, Arthur stepped in and once the front door clicked closed, he followed her up the narrow stairway leading to the second story.</p>
<p>He found her behaviour a little off: she opened the door for him reluctantly but didn't question <em>why</em> he came to see Blake. Although he didn't put too much thought into it as he kept his eyes glancing sceptically around the townhouse for potential danger, his trained military intuition putting him on high alert. He didn't discern any belongings that could be deemed "personal," but there was a collection of oddities strewn about. He didn't get much of a glance of the first floor before being led upstairs, only noting the maroon wallpaper decorated with pale peonies, but along the stairwell were many, many portraits of men and women alike, dressed in the fashions of all ilks of life and in several centuries' worth of styles, most of which carrying austere expressions until Arthur reached the landing where he was greeted with a massive painting of a court jester looking straight at him with an unnaturally wide grin while juggling severed heads before an audience of men and women in the background carrying airs of indifference at the macabre sight.</p>
<p>As he observed the painting, Arthur felt a chill run up his spine.</p>
<p>"Mr. Blake is fond of tragedies," said the maid, interrupting Arthur from his stupor. He clutched his files closer to his chest before continuing to follow her down a hallway lined with mounted animal heads and small stuffed creatures with fangs and claws baring to attack, reinforcing Arthur's belief that he had stumbled into a murder house.</p>
<p>At the very end of the hallway was a door. The woman opened it, revealing another staircase. She stood aside, letting Arthur go in first.</p>
<p>Arthur gulped. Although he prided himself on being a decorated military officer, the thought of delving deeper into this creepy house made him sweat with fear. Reluctantly, he stepped up onto the first board and heard it creak under his weight. Taking a deep breath, he made his way up the narrow, enclosed staircase. He jolted hearing the door below click shut, entrapping him like a rabbit in a deep red wooden box with a single gas-lit lantern to dampen his sense of impending horror.</p>
<p>At the top of the staircase, he gripped the railing so tightly that his knuckles blanched. He came face to face with a brass door knocker the shape of a blindfolded, bearded man's head, the large ring hanging from his mouth between clenched teeth. In the dim light, the door knocker looked life-like and the thought of putting his hand near its mouth and decaying teeth filled Arthur with disgust.He reluctantly let go of the railing to reach up for the ring, knocking against the wooden door and partially hoping no one would answer. He heard the slow creaking of floorboards on the other side and the light beneath the door shimmered just slightly as a mass moved within. Arthur felt his heart stop when he heard a booming voice shout out, "Come in!"</p>
<p>With trembling fingers, Arthur turned the knob, letting the door swing inwards.</p>
<p>The inside of the office wasn't much less cluttered than the rest of the house. Arthur couldn't comprehend how he got any proper work done with such a noisy environment. There was even a massive grandfather clock that filled the space between two large bay windows overlooking the courthouse that seemed to suck in all the attention in the room as its pendulum swung and made its clock hands click with a sound that could drown out the sound of your blood pumping to your brain.</p>
<p>"Are you daft?" called the older man in annoyance, smacking Arthur on the back of his head. Arthur instantly saw red at the hit but composed himself before he could let it slip and hit the old man back.</p>
<p>"Do that again and you won't have a hand left to wipe your shit stained arse with," snapped Arthur, walking over to the large mahogany desk that sat in the middle of the room. "Are you Terence Blake, the man that helped John Sadler plead non-guilty and have his murder charges dropped?" he asked, his brows knitting together as he watched the frail-looking old man, dwarfed by the grotesque and peculiar decor of his home.</p>
<p>The man scoffed and rolled his eyes at Arthur. He ran a hand through his wiry grey hair and cocked his other hand on his hip. "Are you Arthur Kirkland, the Kirkland family’s ass kissing pet dog?" he sneered. He started walking around to his desk, but Arthur was simply too dumbfounded by his rudeness for a witty response.</p>
<p>"How did you know who I am?" he asked, throwing off the ridiculous cap he had used for a disguise. "And I <em>don't</em> ass kiss."</p>
<p>"Can you truly say that despite being a glaring by-product of nepotism?" said Blake, clicking his tongue in disapproval.</p>
<p>Arthur felt his cheeks burning at the accusation. "It's not like I wanted to be a soldier," he replied in a scathing tone.</p>
<p>Blake hummed. "And what is this?" he asked, picking up the large file Arthur had lain on his desk.</p>
<p>Arthur stepped forward and slapped his hand down on the file to shut Blake out of it. "There isn't a chance in the world I'll let you see this without swearing to maintain client confidentiality and secrecy," he said.</p>
<p>Blake sighed. "You'll need to pay a deposit, then."</p>
<p>Arthur reached into his pocket to pull out his coin purse. It was his turn now to scowl in disapproval. "This is no way to treat victims of the law," he grumbled.</p>
<p>"No, but it is a fair way to treat those that abuse it," replied Blake, counting out a handful of guineas for a partial payment. "Now, may I?" he asked, indicating the file.</p>
<p>Arthur frowned and looked down, hesitant, but soon nodded. "Your client doesn't abuse the law," he murmured, wiring his hands nervously. "I assure you--he's a victim. I know he's not a bad man at heart, but the law would have him tried like a murderer simply because of the company he has kept. Your job now is to prove that he was nothing more than a prisoner."</p>
<p>Blake hummed, hardly listening as he glanced over the files. "Are you willing to provide evidence?" he asked, glancing up at Arthur, his eyes sizing him up curiously.</p>
<p>"Whatever you think he might need," he promised.</p>
<p>Blake hummed again. "Your loyalty to your family is truly uncanny," he observed. "Give me a few days to look over the file. If the case is feasible, I'll accept it, and I'll be expecting the rest of your payment at the end of the trial."</p>
<p>Arthur raised a brow. "You don't want payment with the contract?"</p>
<p>Blake shook his head, letting out a sigh. "I don't take pleasure in taking money from dead men."</p>
<p>Arthur frowned at such a morbid sense of justice. Coming out of this with more money in his coin purse was not the outcome he was hoping for.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Gallows</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><span class="u">The Piracy Act, 1698</span>: <br/>The main purpose behind the statute was to make some corrections to the Offences at Sea Act 1536 (28 Hen 8, c. 15). The 1700 statute states that “it hath been found by experience” that the courts met with “great trouble and charges in sending them into England” to be tried for their crimes or cannot easily “be questioned for such their piracies and robberies” because this was the necessary measure for enforcing the law under the statute of Henry the VIII. The 1700 statute changed this law to allow for acts of piracy to be “examined, inquired of, tried, heard and determined, and adjudged in any place at sea, or upon the land, in any of his Majesty’s islands, plantations, colonies, dominions, forts, or factories”. This enabled admirals to hold a court session to hear the trials of pirates in any place they deemed necessary, rather than requiring that the trial be held in England.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arthur didn't allow himself to visit Alistair in prison. He occasionally sent Francis to the courthouse to check on his older brother, to make sure they were treating him as the nobleman that he is and not a murderer. Francis hated being sent on these inane errands, but he understood that Arthur couldn't do it himself without compromising Alistair's chances of avoiding prosecution. For that reason alone, Francis agreed to visit Alistair in the courthouse, even if being surrounded by Englishmen in a courthouse made his blood run cold.</p>
<p>This spring morning was rather brisk and Francis clutched his old brown jacket tighter around himself. He ducked his head as he neared the British infested courthouse that reeked of horse shit, urine, and rotting corpses from the hundreds of executions and murders that took place on its cobblestones. This particular courthouse was clearly modelled after the innumerable other soulless and bland looking stone structures, rising three stories with high arches and large floor-to-ceiling windows with a church-like bell tower in its centre to toll at the oncoming hangings and beheadings that took place in the courtyard within, inviting the townsfolk to flock to and bathe in the bloodlust that permeated the accursed structure.</p>
<p>Francis gargled up some phlegm to spit it out onto the stone steps leading up to the central arch which opened directly into the courtyard. He heard some disgruntled shouting not far off telling him off for desecrating the property with his spit but Francis ignored it and stepped within, taking a sharp right turn to where large wooden double doors lead within the walls of the building. He let himself in and walked down the hallway, already all too begrudgingly familiar with its cold, carpeted landscape. He dragged his feet over the rug, consciously hoping to ruin the fabric on his way to the end of the hall where guards stood before an iron grate with a half-door off-centre within it. Francis had seen it being hoisted up with pulleys once, presumably to let in carts or a large number of people (or simply large and stuffy people that refused to bow down to enter) but for his ilk, they simply unlocked the iron gate within the grate to let him into the dungeon. The first time he came through, one of the guards had followed him inside but since then, they satisfied themselves with feeling him up instead, checking for weapons that could be used before letting him in to wander by himself.</p>
<p>Evidently, they hated the dungeons as much as the prisoners, himself included.</p>
<p>But he much preferred being searched and let in to wander alone than to have a guard watching his every move and listening to his conversations with his lover's estranged pirate brother.</p>
<p>Once he was let in, Francis took a torch from a large fire pit at the entrance to make his way down the dark stairwell carved out of rough sandstone blocks weathered with decades of footfalls. Without a railing to grasp, Francis held a hand flat against the stone as he made his descent, careful not to hit his head on the various legs of men and women imprisoned in iron maidens hanging from the high ceilings along the way. He wrinkled his nose at the overpowering smell of feces and decay that permeated the hall around him, careful where he walked.</p>
<p>When the stairwell finally ended onto a hall, it was lined with more iron gratings. It was mostly quiet, save for the occasional shuffle of rags against the stone floor and some pained moans that reverberated off the walls in the darkness. A few of the cages had muddied faces with mops of unruly hair peeking through the iron bars, their eyes glinting in the light of his torch with feral intelligence lingering, clinging desperately to not fall into madness.</p>
<p>"Hey there, chap," whispered the nearest one. "You got any bread with you? Water, eh? I'll suck your cock if you'd like, yeah?" taunted the thin brunette through the bars, licking his lips up at Francis, giving him a glimpse of the blackened teeth rotting out of his skull.</p>
<p>Francis scowled down at him, steering clear as he continued down his path to find Alistair's cell a few more steps down and (thankfully) around the corner. His corner of the prison was quieter, consisting mainly of felons and murderers destined for the gallows and preferring quiet and solitude over chaos in their last moments. Francis bitterly recalled how he could relate to the feeling from those years ago when he suffered from the White Death--resigning himself to die, and preferring to do so alone and away from his loved ones so they wouldn't need to suffer with him. His chest tightened at the long buried misery and he took a few momentary deep breaths to calm himself before appearing in front of Alistair's cell.</p>
<p>He stopped in front of the tiny rectangular cell, barely large enough for two full-grown men to lay side-by-side, and certainly couldn't fit a full-sized man standing up, since the top of the cell reached Francis's brow. Alistair was laying curled up in the farthest corner he could manage, facing the wall. In the flickering torchlight, Francis could discern that Alistair was mindlessly picking at the mortar between the stones, his nails scraped down to bloody cuticles. <em>Skrit. Skrit. Skrit. </em>Francis cleared his throat. Alistair did not stop. He had drowned himself into a fantasy world, burying himself in the deepest recesses of his mind where the pain and suffering around him couldn't reach him.</p>
<p>"Alistair," called Francis, squatting down to the other's level in a vain attempt to get closer to him despite the iron bars that separated them. "I come with news."</p>
<p><em>Skrit.</em> Alistair stopped. Francis counted three deafening heartbeats before continuing.</p>
<p>"Your brother has found someone that can help," he said. He didn't dare say his lover's name aloud down here in the pits of English hell in a meek attempt to continue protecting Arthur from this fate. "A good lawyer, one that speaks for prisoners such as yourself. There will be a trial and if successful, you will be pardoned."</p>
<p>Francis counted five more heartbeats. Alistair groaned as he shifted, lifting himself on wobbling, atrophied arms to sit up, leaning against the stones and facing Francis from the deepest, darkest corner of his cell. He laid his hands into his lap, facing up as though to cup dripping moonlight into his palms. "Why?" croaked Alistair.</p>
<p>Francis let his knees drop against the dirt, hanging back on his haunches. "Why not?" he replied just as calmly.</p>
<p>Alistair scowled at him. "Don't play coy," he seethed. "Your stupid tricks may work on my idiot brother, but they won't work on me. So tell me <em>why.</em>"</p>
<p>Francis let out a sigh at his impatient tone. "Because you're the family he has chosen," he answered, brows furrowed and his lip quirked into a subtle frown.</p>
<p>Alistair scoffed and looked away. The family he has chosen? It might have been funny if Alistair's own chosen family had not been murdered by Arthur's cruel hand. "I have no family," he said. "Tell him to save his gold, for I would rather die than be spared by his mercy which comes with such a hefty price."</p>
<p>Francis kept his eyes on Alistair, his frown no longer subtle. He counted three more heartbeats before rising back to his feet and walking away, leaving Alistair to claw his way out of his darkness.</p>
<hr/>
<p>As Francis left the courthouse, he wanted nothing more than to get to Arthur's cottage as quickly as possible. He wanted to drag his lover up to bed, make love, and have a drink to forget the ugly situation that they had put Alistair in. He would do whatever it took to drown out the guilt he currently felt.</p>
<p>He rode through Bristol's streets on autopilot, his body already used to the way to Arthur's home on the outskirts. Normally, he might have stopped by a tea shop or a baker on his way there to pick up a nice gift for his sisters, but Francis felt unusually scattered. He rode his horse down the dirt path at a trot until he arrived at the cottage's gates, where he disembarked. He brushed down his horse and put her saddle away once she was safely in her stall and entered the house from the kitchen.</p>
<p>With Arthur on his mind, Francis wandered around the cottage in search of him. He started on the first floor, walking through the parlour, the library, and the office, but he didn't find him. He then went in search through the second floor but found it deserted as well.</p>
<p>Now Francis was getting nervous.</p>
<p>Arthur hadn't mentioned going out, much less with his sisters, nor would he have left without locking up the cottage.</p>
<p>Francis rushed back down to the foyer, his long out of use instincts as a hunter taking over as he searched for signs of a struggle, of an intrusion, anything that could give him clues as to what happened to his new family.</p>
<p>"Francis?" called a faint, mousy voice. Francis had to strain his ears to make sure he hadn't imagined it.</p>
<p>"Yes," he called back, his hands reaching for the knife he kept hidden in his pant leg.</p>
<p>To his right, a cabinet door slowly swung open. Sophie's dark face, framed with black braids poked up from behind. </p>
<p>"Sophie," breathed Francis, his knife just as quickly forgotten as he bent down to help his sister out of the cabinet and hold her in his arms. "Sophie, qu'est-ce qui c'est passé? Where are Arthur and Monique?"</p>
<p>Sophie let out a whimper, burying her face in Francis's chest. "Monique went to town to get a brisket for dinner," she whimpered. "But Arthur... Francis, I'm so scared."</p>
<p>Francis hummed soothingly to calm her, rubbing her back. Although his nerves were screaming at him to jump into action, he could see that he needed to be patient and wait for Sophie to be ready to speak.</p>
<p>"I was in the library," mumbled Sophie, clutching at Francis's shirt. "I was dusting when I heard shouting coming from the foyer. I hid until the shouting stopped and I went to see what had happened, but there was no one and the door was open." She took a deep, hiccuping breath. </p>
<p>"You did not see who was shouting?"</p>
<p>"I recognized Arthur's voice," she said, her grip slackening. "But there were two others I did not know. I'm sorry..."</p>
<p>"You have nothing to apologize for," promised Francis. "I will get to the bottom of this. I want you to stay here and wait for Monique. When she returns, lock all the doors and windows."</p>
<p>Sophie nodded, although the thought of more intruders terrified her. She reluctantly let go of Francis, her fists straining to unclench from his shirt before crawling back into the cabinet and closing the door. In here, she felt calm, at ease, a familiar hiding space from the dark times in her past before Francis returned to her.</p>
<p>Francis watched her crawl into such a small, dark place and wondered at it, but didn't question it. He got back up and went into the front gardens to look for clues regarding their intruders and where they might've taken Arthur. The moment he stepped out of the foyer, he noticed the wheel tracks embedded in the gravel--their own carriage only ever left when they all went out at once, and they never left through the front gate, choosing to leave through the carriage house instead. He could see the trail leading out down the path to the front gate.</p>
<p>Now with a clear direction to follow and wanting to move fast, Francis went back to the carriage house to re-saddle his mare and rode her through the front. From there, he could easily see the fresh line of tracks and hoofprints going down the clear and untrodden path. He followed the tracks to the fork in the road where his own fresh tracks lead away down a separate, less beaten path to the carriage house, but he could still see the clear lines of the carriage wheels, and cursed himself for not noticing them before as he returned home.</p>
<p>He followed the tracks back into Bristol and unfortunately, once he hit the cobblestoned streets, he no longer had any way of tracking the trail. Frustrated with his helplessness, Francis could only return to the cottage and look for more clues as to whom Arthur might have pissed off enough to warrant kidnapping.</p>
<p>No matter how much his sisters prompted him, Francis did not eat that night as he rifled through Arthur's office for anything that could help him find his lover again.</p>
<hr/>
<p><em>Skrit. Skrit. Skrit</em>.</p>
<p>That, and the occasional grumbling was all Arthur could hear in the bleak darkness of the dungeon he was thrown in. Accustomed as he was to darkness, it wasn't long before his eyes adjusted and he could at least see the faint outline of his own hands in front of his face. Once he was certain that the jailers had left, their torchlight dissipated up the stairs, Arthur got up to feel around his new prison cell--only to bang his head against the stone ceiling and curse out a string of nonsense profanities as a result.</p>
<p><em>Skrit</em>.</p>
<p>The scratching stopped. Once the pain in his skull subsided some, Arthur felt the air around him thicken, suffocating him. He instantly fell silent where he knelt, rubbing the growing bump on his head to massage the pain away.</p>
<p>He strained his ears for more of that inane scratching sound but not only was it not coming back, but the groaning, the moaning, and shuffling of rags in other cells have also stopped. Everyone had suddenly grown tense at his unexpected outburst.</p>
<p>Arthur's cheeks grew heated as embarrassment sunk in. He felt like he had disturbed a delicate veil protecting a dismal ecosystem of misery that although brooding, had been stable, and when he raised his voice, the bubble seemed to have popped, exposing them all to reality.</p>
<p>He grumbled and felt his way to a wall near the iron bars of his cell, sitting back against the cool stone. Since he had already broken their brooding bubble, he thought to hell with it. "I'm not supposed to be here!" he called aloud in the direction he had come, although he knew that no soldier would hear him down in the prison block.</p>
<p>Letting out a disgruntled sigh, Arthur bent his head between his knees, rubbing at his scalp and tussling his hair in frustration. He was beginning to consider his alternatives now, how he could get away from here or get a hold of his lawyer, <em>anything</em> to get the news out to <em>someone</em> that can will away this maddening misunderstanding.</p>
<p>A tinkling laugh resounded through the darkness, distracting Arthur from his thoughts. The sound grew in volume, enveloping them all in misplaced mirth, and Arthur wondered idly if this was the fae mocking his predicament.</p>
<p>"You," chanted the tinkling voice. "You're in here too."</p>
<p>"Yes, but... I haven't done anything to deserve it," mumbled Arthur, lowering his voice.</p>
<p>"But you're a murderer, aren't you?" laughed the stranger. "You kill people for money, and you kill others for sport, no? Isn't that what good little soldier boys do?"</p>
<p>Arthur felt his blood run cold at those words. The pieces began to fall together now, the voice became familiar, the clear, seething hatred made light.</p>
<p>"But you're not really a <em>good</em> little soldier boy, now are you?" giggled the taunting voice, his alabaster skin just barely visible to him now. "They must've learned your little <em>secret</em>, baby Arthur. Now the <em>whole world</em> will know what you are."</p>
<p>"No, <em>no</em>, you're wrong," said Arthur. "I am not what you say you are."</p>
<p>"But can you prove it?" cooed Alistair through the darkness. "You're on Death Row with me, now, Arthur. If you thought Father disapproved of my shenanigans, he surely won't save you from yours once he finds out why you're sentenced for death."</p>
<p>Distantly, Arthur heard another prisoner far off spit to the ground. Otherwise, the others sat eerily silent, listening. Judging.</p>
<p>"Tonight, they burn the witches," continued Alistair, his voice low now so Arthur had to strain to hear him. "Tomorrow, I will hang over their smouldering remains. If you're lucky, your body will hang with mine, looking up to the heavens, instead of smouldering amongst the faggots beneath the witches."</p>
<p>Arthur shuddered at such words. He sank against the stone wall, feeling more exposed and vulnerable than he had ever felt before--more so than every time he had been stripped and lashed by their father, far more than the first time he opened himself up to Francis. He clutched at his chest, feeling his heart begin to beat wildly.</p>
<p>He needed to find a way out.</p>
<p>"Ally?" called out Arthur, wincing at how childlike his own voice sounded. "I'm going to get us out of here."</p>
<p>Alistair audibly hummed. "How? We're not exactly stuck in a bail of hay."</p>
<p>"I found someone to plead your case, although I had no idea that your sentence was coming so soon. Why in hell did they neglect to give you a proper trial?"</p>
<p>Alistair scoffed at that. "<em>You</em> gave me my trial when you imprisoned me onboard your ship, you daft fucking idiot."</p>
<p>Arthur winced again. "I forgot about the <em>Piracy Act</em>," he grumbled. "I-it's so new, I forgot," he added, an embarrassingly pleading tone to his voice that only served to irritate Alistair.</p>
<p>"Stop that," snapped the ginger. "Stop blabbering like a child. Your lawyer will be no use to us, and there's no way out. It's over, Arthur. We're going to die, and I only regret that I can't hear your dying screams from here."</p>
<p>"Do you really mean that, Alistair?" Arthur asked quietly, hurt by his brother's brutish honesty. "I have never, ever wanted you to die for the choice you made. I wish you could see that."</p>
<p>"Bloody hard to see in this rotting cesspit. You killed all the people I loved, my real brothers, my <em>family.</em> I will never forgive you for that, Arthur."</p>
<p>Arthur let out a sigh. He was tired of fighting his brother's animosity, and admittedly, from beneath the courthouse, hope was rather hard to come by.</p>
<p>"I wish you had taken me with you," he said under his breath. "I wish you had saved me too."</p>
<p>"Saved you? You were not the one being shunned for choosing a life that was not approved by a narcissistic tyrant," snapped Alistair. "I fought for what I wanted, and I took it. It's not my job to save you, Arthur--that is your job and yours alone."</p>
<p>Arthur sighed. Even in death, they were fighting.</p>
<p>For Arthur had already resigned himself to his fate. He knew Alistair was right, that their father would not save him from the gallows. His only hope was in Francis, and he was direly short on time for him to figure out where Arthur went and how to get him out.</p>
<p>Arthur couldn't help but wonder what crime he had committed to deserve this, and so suddenly. Was Alistair right? Did one of his men turn against him, accused him of sodomy to have him disposed of? Arthur shuddered at the thought of his greatest secret exposed and was terrified that Francis would be killed in the crossfires. The Bonnefoy sisters would inherit nothing, his criminal legacy voiding his last will where he had written that all his wealth ought to go to the two maids that he had adopted as his true family.</p>
<p>They would now be ruined. Again.</p>
<p>With a quiet sob, Arthur all too painfully understood Alistair's animosity towards him.</p>
<p>In the distance, they heard the scratch of iron against stone: the prison had been opened. </p>
<p>"It must be time for the witch trials," said Alistair. Down the hall, an amber light flickered in the stairwell. Metal clanged as cages dropped from the ceiling, the iron maidens emptied of their occupants to be bound and led out into the yard. After thesilence that reigned previously, the noise ahead seemed deafening.</p>
<p>In the bleak light, Arthur looked outside his cell, finding Alistair's pale skin and bright orange hair and beard across from him, also sitting against the stone wall, mirroring Arthur's own posture. Alistair noticed, and shifted uncomfortably in his cell to lean against the opposite wall.</p>
<p>Eventually, the sound of metal and crying women died down, leaving the rest of them in darkness again. Arthur couldn't help releasing an elated breath. Alistair was wrong--he was not being executed for sodomy after all, and the Bonnefoys will likely be safe after all is said and done.</p>
<p>But then what was his crime?</p>
<p>"I guess your secret is safe after all," hummed Alistair.</p>
<p>Arthur leaned his head back against the wall, taking deep breaths to calm himself again. He only had until morning, now. Then, all will be over.</p>
<p>"Ally... were you happy?" Arthur asked in low murmurs.</p>
<p>Alistair was silent, making Arthur wonder if he had heard him at all. All the better, he thought. Better to spend his last moments in silence rather than bicker some more.</p>
<p>"I was," he answered earnestly. "And you?"</p>
<p>Arthur thought his answer over a moment. He let out a long sigh. "With Francis, yes," he admitted. "Before I met him, life was meaningless. I suppose after I'm dead, it'll continue to be meaningless."</p>
<p>Alistair didn't respond to that. He much preferred letting the silence weigh heavy between them. In the distance, Arthur thought he could hear the women screaming for mercy as they were burned alive under the moonlight.</p>
<hr/>
<p>They were rudely awoken in the morning to hollow metal batons striking the metal bars of their cages.</p>
<p>"Up and at'em!" called the guard, an ugly, pudgy boy-man that clearly thought himself superior to them. "'Tis time you paid for your sins, cretins!"</p>
<p>Arthur's stomach grumbled audibly as he got up, groggy and feeling generally unrested from the longest night of his life. They were bound as they were escorted out of their cells and Alistair and Arthur were aligned side-by-side during their ascent back to daylight. Arthur had a fleeting thought that everyone seeing the two together would likely notice the family resemblance. He, however, only grimaced at the obvious difference in height between the two of them, noticing how Alistair was a few inches taller and could look down on him at any point.</p>
<p>But they walked in silence. When their feet hit the ground floor, a jeering crowd could be heard from the inner-yard of the courthouse, angry and mob-like. Arthur wished that he could see Francis one last time. He wanted to tell his partner that he loved him more than anything and anyone in the world and its seven seas. He wished he had not spent so much time fretting over appearances.</p>
<p>When they reached the courtyard, they noticed that they had been cordoned off from the crowd. They saw smoke billowing into the windless sky, seven evenly-spaced black tunnels of wisps.</p>
<p>There was a raised platform in the middle. A judge and executioner stood by the dangling ropes, facing the clock tower. The judge had his hands clasped behind his back, looking fat and pompous, while their masked executioner clasped his hands around the nooses that would be tied around their necks. Four stools were atop the gallows, separated by five feet each so that they could not touch each other.</p>
<p>The prisoners were led up to their stools. Arthur was nearest to the judge, with Alistair by his side, and then two other scrawny young men ended the lineup. A noose was tied around each of their necks, beginning with Arthur. At the end of the line, the executioner stood and waited for the judge to call order and to declare their death sentences.</p>
<p>"Quiet, please, so that we may begin!" bellowed Munt. A hush fell over the crowd. Munt unclasped his hands and motioned towards the man farthest from him. "Theodore Blundt. You have been declared guilty of the murder of your wife and three sons. For this, your sentence is death. Do you have any last words?"</p>
<p>The hush in the crowd turned to silence. Theodore raised his head, an angry scowl painting his mud caked features. He squared his shoulders and spat into the crowd, which caused them an uproar of disgust. The judge motioned to the executioner. The stool was kicked out from beneath Theodore, hanging and suffocating him as his legs flailed about for solid ground they would never find. Munt called the crowd to order again.</p>
<p>"John Smyth. You stand accused of practicing medicines deemed immoral. For the killing of hundreds of unborn babes, you are sentenced to death. Do you have any last words?"</p>
<p>John looked around the crowd, a wild look in his eyes before turning to Munt. "I only did as the women asked!" he exclaimed. "They would have died, if not for me! Their husbands would be widows and their children would be orphans! You cannot sentence me to death for doing as God--"</p>
<p>He was abruptly interrupted as the stool was kicked out from under him, his noose tightened around his neck, making him gargle for air and kick for ground. Alistair hardly noticed the executioner take away his support, too distracted by Theodore's flailing, his lips turning a bright blue and his eyes reddened and bulging from his skull.</p>
<p>Munt calmed the crowd's cheering again, as he moved on to Alistair. He gave Munt a look he had long reserved for his father if he ever saw him again, but now he knew that would not be happening.</p>
<p>"Alistair <em>Kirkland</em>," spat Munt, displaying an obvious disdain as the noble name rolled off his tongue. "You have been tried at sea and found guilty of murder, grand theft,kidnapping, and rape." Alistair felt his blood boil that false accusations had been added, knowing it was purely to further sully his family name. "Arthur <em>Kirkland</em>. I thought I would give the two of you the chance to draw your last breaths together, now that you've been reunited where you so rightfully belong. Did you think you could save this pirate's life with your money and glory? Did you think yourself so privileged as to be above the law, declared by our King?!"</p>
<p>Alistair's eyes widened. He turned to Arthur, but his brother had his gaze fixed into the crowd, cold and unseeing.</p>
<p>"You stand accused of aiding and abetting a murder, a thief, a kidnapper, and a rapist. You have <em>both</em> been sentenced to--"</p>
<p>"You bloody fucking idiot," exclaimed Alistair. "You had to have known it would be suicide. Arthur, you complete git, this is not your day to die!"</p>
<p>Munt's face turned red with indignation, puffing out like a startled bird. "How dare you interrupt me?" he snapped.</p>
<p>"Oh, shut up, you impotent fop," snapped Arthur. He relished the stunned look on Munt's swollen face before turning to Alistair. "Yes, I knew it would bring my death, but I had to try. I couldn't live with myself letting you go all those years ago, and I knew no other way of making things right."</p>
<p>"Arthur--"</p>
<p>"Sadly, as you know, this imbecile is about to sentence us both to death, so I do believe it's my day to die. I have failed as a brother and I have failed as a son. I hope I failed marginally less as a lover, although I wish I had treated him better."</p>
<p>Alistair looked at him dumbfounded by this. He so nonchalantly confessed his love for Francis, another man, in front of this crowd of people that then stopped cheering so violently when his words dawned on them.</p>
<p>Arthur turned to Munt, who was also evidently stunned silent. "Get on with it, you fucking wank. Or do I have to carry on my own execution?"</p>
<p>Munt returned to his senses, his face turning red again. "I sentence you to death!" he screamed, pointing roughly at the two brothers and they both fell, their bodies dangling by their nooses.</p>
<p>Alistair felt robbed of his last breath. He hung, his body straining against the constraints, straining to free himself from his death. His legs kicked at air, and his body turned towards Arthur, and he watched in horror as his little brother's skin began to purple and his offensive mouth gaped for breath that would never come. His ears began ringing, drowning out the cheering crowd around them.</p>
<p>There was a flash of red. A hole in Arthur's chest dripped down to the floor, the tell-tale splatter of a flintlock's destruction. He watched as life left his brother's eyes near instantly, and in the corner of his eyes, he saw chaos in the crowd below, and a cloaked man in a powder blue coat slinking away before he could be caught.</p>
<p>It was the last thing he saw before his vision went black. Unable to see and hear, Alistair let go all too easily, letting death carry him far, far away.</p>
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